Regime Change
by dearmrsawyer
Summary: The Knight of Hell is not yet done with her King. Coda to 8x23.


The King of Hell crawled to the foot of his own throne. None had come to his aid, and none aided him now.

The throne room was vacant but for the dark realm's ruler. Hands with the stain of human pulled him up until he was seated. They burned at the touch of condemned bones. Slumping, he bowed his head and breathed in sulphur. And coughed.

Crowley felt within an absence of darkness that permeated the air. He felt as if his insides had been stripped of their taint. Unclean to this unclean place. He was no longer as one with his empire. A monarch who could not breathe in his monarchy. Sam Winchester's spell had not fulfilled its purpose, but it had worked enough magic to separate Crowley from his own.

He thought back to those hours in the rotting church and clenched violet knuckles, blood seeping down to sizzle against the throne. He had such plans for his disloyal army. Every last abomination bred within the bars of this prison would suffer deeper circles of torment that even they would not take pleasure in.

He would show Hell the meaning of its own name.

No more were the aching queues or persecuting elevator music that echoed down every last hall. No, Hell would see days of blood and ripping once more, but the only one who would rip would be him.

But not yet. Not just yet. Crowley had such plans, but they would have to wait. For now, he needed time. The shell around his blackened soul had been pried open; humanity had begun to cleanse him. Crowley's hordes had so many lessons ahead, but they would all have to wait. For now, the King must be remade.

The Underworld gave an almighty shudder and Crowley's hands tightened before whipping back at the burn. Distant screams and praises reached the throne room and the shudder began to take the repeating form of footsteps. Approaching.

Ebony doors splintered, forced from their hinges. Crowley hunched upon his great seat, cursing all above and below that he could not uphold a regal form. That he was about to be seen as he was.

The sulphuric atmosphere did not dissipate so much as it was replaced by a new scent. One of burnt flesh, scorched black, and the smell of long-dead organs floating through human cracks. It had not been long since he had smelt this very scent. From the church he had silently slunk away.

"Well if it isn't my little whore."

"Not yours." Blackened lips which bled at the stretch of a smile. Hair no longer the colour of the blaze which had burnt it half to ash. Bare muscle and vein, still smoking, fresh from the flames. Abaddon, with a face still half pearlescent, dusted black from the cinders, and half burnt right off. The burning remains of Josie Sands.

As she walked forward the body crackled; it had not yet fully extinguished.

"If you don't mind the pun, you look like Hell," Crowley smirked, eyes dropping to the floor. The effort of to retain eye contact was too much.

"Good look for a Knight, don't you think?" One corner of her charred lips curled upwards and a trickle of blood down slid down the side of her mouth as she spun a smoky twirl. "I find myself quite fond of little Josie. Not quite ready to part with her. Besides, I look a Hell of a lot better than you."

She finished her manoeuvre and her arms came to rest at her sides. Her grin vanished, and quite suddenly she was wicked and vice and all the eons she had served in these dark ranks.

"You infant." Her eyes blazed from within the black. "That you could be a King. Barely crawling and I, a Knight from the dawn of this Kingdom, appointed by Morning Star himself. Who are you? You who has never even stood in his presence."

Crowley tried to straighten his posture but the throne was too hot against his humanised skin, and he had to focus all his energy on simply maintaining his place there. To hold on to what he deserved. And all the while Abaddon was stalking closer.

"You're filth. Spawn of generations of demons who did as they please, who cared nothing for the will of their creator. For our Father."

She was right in front of him now, and though his seat was raised she appeared to tower over him, and he to diminish before her. Her scent caught his nose, and he felt his nasal passage burn.

"And now look at you. Not even half the demon you were then."

With a powerful hand she grabbed the bloody scruff of his shirt and ripped him from his place. His cheek slammed into the floor. Hard as stone, built of bones. It, too, burned.

"What makes you think you are worthy of his throne? Diluted. Parasitic. Feeding on everything he built, and thinking you can do better?"

She stood over him now, and he could see one eye sitting loose in its crumbling socket.

"This throne deserves a Knight."


End file.
